One for Sorrow, Two for Joy
by starspatter
Summary: A woman, wondering what might've been.
Taking a bit of a break from solely RotJ-related projects (although it is referenced within; more will eventually be coming in that regard). This was inspired by a tumblr prompt and takes place after the events of "Starcrossed", but mainly follows the canon of various DCAU tie-in comics (with perhaps a bit of BvS influence) - namely the Justice League Beyond 2.0 storyline, which reveals what happened to Diana after JLU ended.

* * *

When Wonder Woman – Diana – pulled away from the passionate kiss, the first word she sheepishly murmured was:

"Sorry."

To which her (pretend) "lovebird" replied:

"Don't be."

Batman – Bruce – quirked a smile – the kind she rarely saw whenever he was wearing a façade. It wasn't her first time seeing him without one, but it was a surprise that he'd unveiled himself so willingly in front of the others. What with the Thanagarians on their tail and the fate of the world at stake, she hadn't really had time to let that soak in (absorb the cool dark irises and handsome curl of casually half-combed hair that had been omitted from their first formal "date", dancing carefree as "civilians" for once rather than superheroes).

When all was said and done – the invaders driven off, a verdict reached and friendships fragmented – she had tried to approach him afterwards, to discuss what had happened in the restaurant, but he seemed no longer in the mood for conversation. They'd already argued round the table for hours, and she had been the most vocal against allowing Hawkgirl to remain in the League. Bruce – Batman (both the cowl and scowl were back by now, to her dismay) – hadn't said much (as was his wont) in either direction, but he had been the only other one to support her (rational) decision, to revoke license for the grave sin of double-cross. Reject amnesty, if not strip amity status. The rest – excluding John who abstained – voted in favor of letting the traitor stay.

Seeing Stewart's tears that day after he watched his love soar away became burned in her memory, so that later, when Batman leads his list of reasons for not accepting her advances by stating initially:

 _1\. "Dating within the team always leads to disaster."_

…She finds herself reluctantly compelled to concur. Concede the first point's victory at least to history (even if she still personally believes they can avoid that pitfall).

Things became busy after that: rebuilding, regrouping, recruiting – expanding base size and operations. Managing internal affairs became a full-time job, and for a "part-timer" like Batman, having an "office" affair with a "respected colleague" on the side seemed out of the question.

She always knew, to an extent, that he had a life outside the League – a city to defend and a "family" of his own. Most of the members did, but for a mere normal human – a man who belonged to the public eye as much as his private crusade – it was difficult for her to fathom how he managed to keep up with it all. And yet, he was perhaps the most reliable –and persistent – amongst them, and that's what attracted her to him. The sheer _obstinacy_ of mortals – especially men – despite their seeming weakness fascinated her.

 _2\. "You're a princess from a society of immortal warriors. I'm a rich kid with issues. **Lots** of issues."_

After her exile from Themyscira, the Watchtower had become her second residence, the League her new brothers and – sister. Maybe that was why it hurt so acutely when Shayera betrayed them. A part of her understood the other's pain all too well, of having to choose priority between policy and probity, of being forced to leave her people – and pondered if perhaps she _had_ been too harsh. She had forgiven the Justice Lords after all, convinced Batman to let them be sent home, depowered and dethroned. At her core, she wanted to believe in the basic goodness of others. …Of themselves.

So when, years later, the effects of Luthor's weapon wore off and their counterparts presumably regained their abilities, she refused to fear the worst until they breached through the barrier at last – emerging into a world at total war.

It had taken time to persuade Batman to help them finally fix the portal. He'd been "officially" retired from the League for ages; everyone was shocked upon the abrupt announcement of his resignation. She'd heard, through the grapevine, of what had happened in Gotham: a close comrade – partner – son – kidnapped by an insane clown and ruthlessly tortured for information. There were rumors of more: an innocent adolescent's spiraling descent into madness, coercion at attempted murder, grim laughter and potential manslaughter – mistakes made that compromised everything the "family crest" stood for.

 _3\. "If my enemies knew I had someone special, they wouldn't rest until they'd gotten to **me** through her."_

She had never met the lad, the one who also bore the "Wonder" subtitle at times, but a few of her cohorts had when he apparently flew the Batplane into outer space (while she was conveniently out on deployment), impressively managing to guide the craft to their headquarters by himself to request their aid in locating his boss, who'd himself gone missing. As it turned out, Batman had been brainwashed while on an undercover assignment (so covert he hadn't alerted anyone in the League either, causing the others to thoroughly chew him out afterwards), placed under a magic spell by the same sorcerer who once turned her Amazonian sisters to stone and blackmailed her into running around collecting relics for him. As much as she couldn't believe Batman would be so stubborn as to not call in more backup for assistance – especially when the roles were reversed – she recalled being similarly reticent at first to involve others in a "domestic" concern. Batman had also kept a relatively quiet profile when she herself had been enchanted – transformed into a… less than dignified creature – tightening lips and rein on the situation to a single trusted contact, later limiting a necessary search party to but a select number – perhaps to protect her pride. The more he cared about someone it seemed, the more he tried to shoulder burden onto himself. The logic wasn't very sound, but then little about his – humanity's – actions made sense to her.

His hypocrisy didn't end there. There was even more gossip surrounding Gotham's resident "playboy billionaire" dating the Police Commissioner's daughter, whom she'd deduced must be Batgirl. When she learned of the news, she felt… Jealous? Cheated? For all his talk of "disrupting the team dynamic", of being too "dedicated to the mission" to pursue a serious relationship, she didn't know what to make of this development. (Not to mention the "generation gap" seemed to be a factor in others' disapproval, although for someone who was sculpted from clay eons ago that sort of stigma never really fazed her. She was older than her supposed "seniors" by far, but the disparity in maturity was often evident, given her lack of experience. Green Lantern had even remarked on her greenness once by referring to her as the "rookie in the tiara", to her chagrin.) They started to awkwardly evade each other's eyes in the halls and cafeteria of the Watchtower, collaborating only when required. And after he withdrew completely from the League – severing ties which were already severely strained and frayed – she wasn't sure whether to even make an effort to mend them. Whether she should, or – even wanted to anymore.

When their connection to the alternate universe was suddenly cut off though, she had been the first to fly straight over and arrive at the (now sorely empty) manor's doorstep, begging for his cooperation. Aside from his technological expertise (and financial access), they needed him – as one of the original seven, a founding "father" – to confront their doppelgangers. He staunchly declined at first, pointing out another world's disputes weren't really their problem to begin with. (When had he become so cold?) Eventually she wore him down though, reasoning the Lords could be readying to launch an attack from their end at any time, and the League needed to be prepared just in case.

They toiled tirelessly to restore the transporter, Batman being the most ceaseless hand despite his bemoaning and bellyaching – barking orders and brooding as he always did, but ten times worse than she remembered. Finally, the teleport device showed signs of response, and upon crossing the dimensional rift, her heart ached to see the chaos and destruction stretching for miles. A ruined wasteland. She had advocated so strongly for the Lords' redemption – a second chance – and while Lord Green Lantern, Lady Hawkgirl, and Lord Martian Manhunter had indeed left Earth in disgust, she had been wrong about Lord Superman and… "Herself" changing their ways.

They had an ally though, in Lord Batman, who led the opposition against Lord Superman's reign of terror. They joined him in the fray, fighting for free voice and choice vs. the extreme methods a dissenting dictatorship represented, which they'd witnessed the results of during their first "visit" to the planet.

As she observed Batman – Bruce – her Bruce (Hera, it was all so confusing) during the battle, standing beside him in combat for the first time in forever, she sensed his tactics had become far more brutal than their last encounter – to the point she could hardly tell the difference between him and his mirror image. They both had the same look of a battered and beaten shell of a man who had lost too much – too much to bear – who had no more hope or honor to spare, nothing even _left_ to give but would rather die than give up. Perhaps, she thought as she bandaged her Bruce's wounds and held his hand, wearily leaning into his even further exhausted, guilt-ridden shoulder, they shared the sentiment of embarking on a fools' suicide objective out of penance – self-punishment for their own past crimes. …For all the important things left unsaid – until it was too late.

 _"Sometimes it takes the horrors of war to make you realize what really matters."_

The struggle was long and arduous, taking a heavy toll on them all – and they couldn't stay indefinitely. Their own world was being threatened by Mongul in their absence. The rest returned to help fend him off, but she – chose to remain. She felt obligated – determined – to put right what she had wrought, if indirectly. When she bid goodbye to her friends – to her love – she hadn't planned the farewell to be forever. But eventually, Lord Batman concluded the best course of action to prevent the escalation from spreading – keep collateral damage and casualties contained to a minimum – was to seal the gateway permanently. Tearfully, she agreed.

As she followed her new commander – brother-in-arms – into dangerous enemy territory, rescuing him from narrow death time after time, she found herself falling for his tenaciousness all over again. He's not her Bruce – not exactly – but he _is_. All she has left. And when armor fails and his luck finally runs out, she cradles his fragile, twisted cranium in her arms, weeping silently while Lord Superman gazes upon his own stiff, crumpled half nearby – her other half, whose neck she'd mercilessly snapped in rage and retribution – revenge – with her lasso – before watching it disintegrate to worthless, blackened dust in the wind. The cost and color of one's true emotions.

What proceeds is a proposal that both she and Clark – Lord Superman – find abhorrent, but it seems their only option. No truce or treaty would bring peace to a world so divided into factions. They needed to be figureheads, shining examples of extending not just the olive branch, but exchanging bands and vows. "'Till death do us part" – if one of them didn't try to kill the other first.

The wedding takes place under cameras and crew, carefully rehearsed and broadcast on every network channel, for all the globe to see. (She muses, idly, what her mother – _her_ mother would think if she were watching. No doubt the island's populace had long retreated back to the Realm of the Gods, abandoning mankind to their folly after their own "outside ambassador" had abandoned their ways.) As she recites the impassionate speech concocted for the occasion, primed and polished solely for the public's benefit, her thoughts wander back to another brash young princess she'd met once, who'd also sacrificed her liberty for the sake of her state, an arranged marriage to a man who turned out to be just as much of a monster. She reflects on that one wild night in the city of lights, where for once she got to experience what it was like to be a giddy "ordinary" girl, rather than being treated as a warrior or fellow royalty. She'd even been swept off her feet at a social gala – _soirée_ – by a dashing gentleman who went by the name of Wayne, swooping in to save her from the spotlight of curious media vultures by asking for her hand on the ballroom floor…

She shakes her head, denying herself to dream. There's no time to dwell on the past now. She steels her soul and resolutely closes off her heart, shutting out all sensation and sympathy – self-pity – by filtering through a static screen. Holding her noble chin high and waving politely to the crowds and monitors whenever teleprompted. Between mandatory interviews and "civil" gatherings (garbage, pure utter garbage, all the confetti and conferences were) she keeps herself occupied – distracted – with ample matters of statecraft and global security – separate from her so-called "husband". Openly detesting and despising when detached, faking tolerance when together, as summoned only when duty demands. Constructing and crafting her own sickeningly false disguise, gritting teeth and balling fists to quell boiling antipathy at the dinner table each night, as she could barely put up with such poisonous proximity, a perpetual sham. (Her distaste is so great that more than once she's tempted to spitefully spike his drink with Kryptonite – if only the vile demon weren't always so vigilantly on guard against such assassination attempts, as the scarecrow warnings of lobotomized corpses strung up in the Metropolitan square would attest to, despite her urging towards nonlethal penalties for more minor forms of transgression. Treason.)

…As time goes on, it becomes increasingly strenuous to maintain balance, standing toe to toe on such tenuous tightrope – tug of war. Trying to tip the scale, trip the other to tumble into Tartarus first. (Rather than seeing eye to eye, all the other's presence evokes is a vindictive thirst to pluck pupils as payback.) Even during the briefest of brisk interactions, it's a stark challenge to preserve diplomatic portrayal. They quickly come to realize their mutual hatred for each other would only continue to grow, and from it there could only be borne bloodlust too intense to repress, sowing seeds of conflict. So they seek another solution, to further unite their sovereignty and fractured Earth under it by producing an heir – a son to carry on their legacy.

In truth, he's merely a pawn – an artificially synthesized test tube baby spawned from their combined DNA, whom they essentially planned to experiment on by exposing to each of their philosophies, to endeavor to drag him to one side of the divide, make him see the merit in a single approach to governing. For neither would trust the other to rule alone. He's only another tool to be used in their hostile feud against each other, exploit and exert control over as a substitute for seizing regime. Transferring loathing to their successor as an unfortunate surrogate, vessel for vendetta – individual agenda. Cruelly caught up in petty politics and parental quarrel, subject to their squabble and bitter bickering before he could even hear or see or speak, let alone move or make assessments of his own. …Never did it occur to them to even bless the child with a name – until it's too late.

Brainiac appears to try and take over the Earth, and during the assault he snatches their unborn son, sending him across the dimensional wall to her old homeworld, where he'd be raised and trained to use as a weapon (which is scarcely better than what she and Lord Superman had intended, to be fair). When she finally manages to penetrate the boundary in order to hunt for him, she rejoices to discover he's ended up in the most capable hands she could've asked for – the Justice League.

However, upon revealing his heritage (and contritely confessing the conspired plot to utilize him as a puppet prince), he angrily declares that he'd sooner prefer not to have anything to do with her, which she supposes is only just. Even Superman – Clark – had his doubts about her at first, suspecting she was in fact her "evil twin" come to clear the competition for her associates. Her "welcome home" is met with mixed reception by all, but when she sees Bruce – not her Bruce anymore, but _Bruce_ all the same – all her apprehensions melt away as he smiles that asymmetrical smile – one corner lifted, cocked coyly higher than the other – and draws her into a warm embrace.

His palms are rough and worn, thinning hair grayed and haggard face full of wrinkles, withered and weathered by the weight of old age and obvious grief. It hadn't really dawned on her until now – just how much time had passed between them. Seeing him like this was like seeing Steve in the future – present – after the war, living alone in an elderly veteran's retirement home, where she went to visit upon returning to current period. She had clutched his equally calloused hand, and together they surveyed the sunset, listening to the gentle chorus of evening birdsong, a heavenly choir in the background. When he passed shortly after, she attended the funeral and laid flowers at his open casket, sadly thinking that it really looked like he was just sleeping. (It struck her as ironic for the pre-ceremony to be called a "wake"; human language was odd like that, how meanings modify over time, corrupting communication.) While mourning forlornly in solitude, she purposefully suppressed symptoms of sorrow, expressing positive outlook instead through prayer to all the pantheons. Fervently beseeching for safe passage to wherever his destination may be, and to grant him restful solace in slumber. …At least maybe he would finally get to meet an "authentic" angel now.

Prior to taking a walk around town (per her suggestion), Bruce prefaces by proffering her his coat, to uphold a proper reputation even though they were both well aware she didn't mind the temperature. She scoffs mildly in amusement at the notion – not his kindness – but the whole "secret identity" spiel. She had forgotten there existed worry over such things, once upon a time. Masks, mortality – such concepts had always been beyond her understanding. She was – and always will be – Diana Prince – princess of the Amazons. Nigh undying, unaltering, unfaltering – long after her newfound compatriots have fallen.

As they explore Gotham – Neo-Gotham, as it's called now – her spirit sinks to see the desolation, how decrepit everything became – including her hunched companion, whose cane taps a steady staccato rhythm beside them, an insistent third wheel. She knows, and so does he: It's impossible to turn back time, go back to the way they were before. Things could never be quite the same between them. He had changed – not just physically, but in all moral and mental aspects – and in all honesty so had she. She was no longer the wide-eyed, wondering woman she once was, but older, wiser, tougher. They'd both seen and suffered too much, and their tragedies were too far torn apart to reconcile with each other; the shattered pieces would never fit together as a cohesive whole at this point. (Even if they could, it would drudge up too much rueful recollection – remorse – for her, as by some inexplicable token the prospect of replacing a "proxy" with the "prototype" felt almost as unfaithful as consorting with her foe.) Unholy matrimony taught her that the hard way, being wedlocked to a mad monarch who'd let power go to his skull – and yet, deep down, still believed somewhere within himself he was doing the right thing.

But, when all is said and done – Lord Superman defeated and banished to the Phantom Zone, the remaining Lords once again dismissed under promise of new leadership, alliances annulled and broken bonds somewhat repaired – Bruce approaches her after, to ask what she plans to do now – and to offer her a place to stay, if need be. She smiles, tells him she's thinking of reestablishing Paradise Island to see if her sisters would like to return from the Olympian Realm, but graciously accepts if, in the meantime, he has a "spare room" in his mansion she could use from time to time.

"I have an entire wing I don't think I've set foot in for years. It's all yours."

When she hears that, all she can think is – how _lonely_ it must have been, to have been holed up all these decades in a huge, hollow house, a deserted dwelling. …And yet, despite being constantly surrounded and scrutinized – supervised – by society back "home", she can empathize with that feeling of isolation – suffocation – all too well.

But he's not alone – not entirely – anymore it seems. There's the new boy, who himself risked everything to enter and save a strange, savage, unknown land – who found a familiar, comforting face and fulfillment there of his own. While according to Clark the two seemed to be having some sort of spat, she had heard the whispered tremble of terror in Bruce's tenor when he thought his protégé had perished at the hands of Lord Superman. But he was alive and well – they all were (if worse for wear). …And it was time to start anew. (Maybe even, hopefully, someday, patch things up with her own offspring.)

She informs Bruce directly of her desire to relinquish the past, clear the air and dispel residual regrets so that there's no longer any lingering misunderstanding – longing – between them. Lay down both laurels and soldiers' arms before each other, letting bygones be bygones and leaving grudges and glances and tender touches behind, putting it all to bed. Extinguish old flames and allow pyre to expire (on a ship sailed long ago) so they can effectively pass on the torch. Due to her own shame and self-consciousness over her misdeeds, she wants to wipe the record clean – blank slate – before taking off towards a fresh beginning – for both of them. He simply nods and wishes her well, inviting her to come back for a cup of tea whenever she'd like.

She answers that she would like that.

Inclining forward to softly peck his cheek, she caresses the creases with affection, and he simultaneously places a profound paw on hers, admiring, envying smooth splendor and bold bravery that could never truly be marred in his opinion, tracing a slow thumb down the long martyr's scar stretching from her forehead across her eye. His vision trails along to her golden crown – taking in the sight of his own ancient, artifact reflection – and the dazzling astral jewel gleaming bright in its center, a radiant ruby to match the owner's halo. (Again, he's certain that its vibrant glow – _his_ guardian angel's grace – wouldn't fade; divine blade could never be sullied, dirtied or dulled, only made sharper, stronger wherever she goes.) Reminiscing over remiss, mulling on missed opportunities and celestial misalignment – a cosmic conspiracy. Ultimately, the stars had crossed for them; Fates' needles spinning the cowherd's and weaver girl's threads on separate tracks, spanning across constellations. While a flock of magpies brought them back together at last, the bridge wouldn't last. But he knows, and so does she:

"We'll always have Paris, won't we."

"That we will, my dear."

As she departs on her maiden voyage, to journey back to her real homeland, he makes one last gesture – a genuine, heartfelt apology – for far too many injuries piled up to clinically compile, neatly summarize into succinct bullet points like before.

"Diana… I'm sorry."

She just smiles, the sincere kind of smile he's always known and adored – a beautiful, balanced beam – but could never bring himself to fully reciprocate – until now.

"Don't be."

* * *

The title refers to a children's nursery rhyme about magpies, which in some cultures are considered to bring either good or bad luck depending on the number one sees. In Chinese/Japanese mythology they also symbolize the annual reunion of two star-crossed lovers by forming a bridge for them to cross the Milky Way (represented by a river in the sky), allowing the couple to meet for just one day a year. 


End file.
